Entry tags:

*fic, character: cedric diggory, character: fleur delacour, community: rarepair_shorts, fandom: harry potter, genre: general, genre: romance, gift, rating: g, ship: cedric/fleur

Home Again
Title: Home Again
Recipient: kcstories
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Cedric/Fleur
Prompt/Request: getting-together fic, friendship, realistic romance (I hope!), “what if”
Rating: G
Word Count: 672
Summary: “Woah there, Miss Delacour,” a familiar voice says somewhere behind her ear as she struggles to be released. “You were almost hit by that runaway broom.”
Author's Notes: for the rarepair_shorts wishlist event. Beta'd by captainpookey.

Home Again

Fleur rounds the corner into Diagon Alley, careful to keep the hem of her robe out of the dirt. England, she thinks, is such a filthy place compared to France; the wizards here do not seem to be proud of their country, do not want to flaunt and beautify it. Fleur has never been able to understand why.

If she were not so determined to learn English, she knows she would return home.

It is this, in fact, that has brought her here today. She will use only the best books, only the best resources, to teach herself this strange, coarse language, and she has been told that she can find them in Diagon Alley.

Fleur wrinkles her nose. Why anyone would want to have a respectable location named after an alleyway is beyond her.

She glances upward as she steps into the street, barely taking note of the towering structure that is Gringotts Wizarding Bank. She has grown used to its grandeur, and in fact now finds it garish. If only the English could learn from the architects of France…

Her blatant disapproval has distracted her, for the next thing she knows, a pair of strong arms grasp her around the middle, and she feels something shoot past her—out of control; a blur.

“Woah there, Miss Delacour,” a familiar voice says somewhere behind her ear as she struggles to be released. “You were almost hit by that runaway broom.”

Fleur stops kicking and looks up at the man who is currently holding her close to his chest, and she finds herself staring into the warm brown eyes of Cedric Diggory, a polite yet amused smile upon his handsome face.

The last time Fleur saw Cedric, she had been screaming so loudly that she had hardly been able to see straight. Which, she later thought with only mild embarrassment, had been justified: she had thought he was dead. He had looked dead, after all, when Harry had suddenly appeared after the third task of the Triwizard Tournament, clutching the cup and what had looked to be Cedric’s body.

In the wake of the confusion which that had wrought, she had been carted away by Madame Maxime before she could give him a proper farewell. The last she heard, Cedric and his father had left the country—no doubt, she had thought at the time, against Cedric’s wishes; she had never known him to be the type of boy who ran away.

“Cédric?” she stammers, not tearing her eyes away. She can feel his heartbeat against her back; for some reason, it is as fast, as irregular and jumpy, as hers.

“I hope you weren’t expecting someone else,” he jokes lightly.

Her cheeks flush. “I deed not know zat you were een Eenglan’.”

He half-frowns. “Yeah. My dad didn’t see any point in staying away. Or, at least… I managed to convince him that it was okay to come home.” Then he smiles. “I’ve missed England.”

Fleur is tempted to tell him that she has missed him, but that, she thinks, would be silly. They had not quite been friends during the Triwizard Tournament, after all, no matter how polite he had been to her, or how strangely intrigued she had been by him.

“Eet ees good to be back?” she asks. She is dimly aware of the fact that he still has not let her go; they must look as though they have been dancing.

He chuckles. “More than you know.”

She thinks, for a moment, that she sees something flicker in his eyes as he looks at her, something that makes her head feel light. But perhaps she is only imagining it.

“Hey, would you like to get something to drink?” he asks abruptly.

She recovers, just slightly. “Only eef eet ees not zat ‘orrible theeng you Eenglish call coffee,” she teases, making a face.

“Don’t worry,” he tells her. “I was thinking of something a little bit fancier.”

Or perhaps, she muses, she has not imagined anything at all.

THE END